


Wild Daisies

by vermicious_knid



Series: Then there's you [3]
Category: I Am The Night (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vermicious_knid/pseuds/vermicious_knid





	Wild Daisies

Another year passes.

 

In that time, Fauna starts paying more attention in class, gives up on english lit for criminology – there is only two girls taking it other than her, the boys sometimes stare and snigger but she doesn’t pay them any mind.

 

It helps, to understand things a bit more. She finds herself parched for the knowledge, somehow already ahead of them all and still catching up. She gets books from the library, borrows from a classmate a book that has been banned by the university for its graphic material, for the evidence photos within.

 

She is always packed with questions for the professor – but she waits until everyone else leaves to ask them. She’ll take her time between each, always hesitant and yet her eyes burn holes into his head that keeps him in place, not daring to look at his watch or to say ”That will certainly not be on the test next week.”

 

Fauna doesn't ask about what you might think. She never mentions her past, or the crimes related to it. But she asks about heritage, madness that leaps between generations. Curious but afraid, she asks.

* * *

 

When the other girls in the dorm gather at night, put on more makeup and go out to the local bars – she sometimes join them. But lately, instead of dancing or talking to the boys with too long eyelashes and lazy smiles - she is somehow drawn to places with an open mic night. Jazz clubs who needs a singer for the night.

 

But she doesn't take the step up to the stage until one night, when one of the bassists – who has observed her curious glances, leans down and speaks to her.

 

”You a musician girl?” he asks, and she smiles briefly.

 

”No, not really. My mother – she’s the singer.”

 

The bassist leans back and plays a few tunes on his instrument, warming up. The tune is contemplative, like a human humming softly.

 

”So it’s in the family then. I bet you sing like the angels.” he says, and her smile is rapidly gone. She rubs at her naked arm and looks down at the floor like a fugitive.

 

”Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve only ever sung in choir before.”

 

The bassist keeps on playing.

 

”Ah, so you’ve got experience. Now all you need is a song.” he says. Despite herself, her interest is piqued.

 

”A song?”she asks, like its a trap.

 

”The one you sing to yourself, the one that you sing inside your head right now.”

 

She stares at him. He’s right of course – there is a song. But dare do that? In front of everyone present, like a happening. Will the audience come at her with scissors, taking her apart piece by piece?

 

The bassist winks at her, like he understands.

 

”Go ask Joe behind the bar. Mary hasn’t quit drinking and won’t turn up – I bet he’d welcome anyone who can hold a tune tonight.”

 

* * *

It feels strange when she later that night steps up on stage in-between jazz pieces. The club is only half-full, but it feels like she is about to sing for the president himself.

 

But then she hears the tempo of the bass behind her, that familiar hum-hum sound and she relaxes a little.

 

She heard the song a few weeks ago on the radio, and it resonated with things she had been otherwise unable to express. Music, her music that only she likes, has the ability to do that. Its not the sugary pop that attracts her, but the slow, mellow tones – that evokes both dread and peace all at once.

 

_Willow weep for me_

 

_Bent your branches down along the ground and cover me_

 

_Listen to my plea_

 

_Hear me willow and weep for me_

 

* * *

After that night, it’s hard to keep her away. And soon enough, they start paying her to do it. Joe’s eyes twinkle in his rugged face when she gets on stage, a man who rarely has something positive to say about anyone.

 

They say that her voice is surprisingly deep, when she sings. She’s so small and skinny, and she always has to adjust the microphone to her height.

 

But she never hesitates, when she sings. There is almost a defiant look in her eye when she starts – daring the audience to shut her up.

 

Usually she doesn’t even think about them. She focuses on the magical feeling, the muscles in her throat and belly that work in tandem with her emotions.

 

The applause is what always shakes her back to the present, and always surprises her. Despite the fact that guest now approach her, asking if she’s headed for a star-studded career.

 

She always shakes her head, like they’re crazy (when in fact it may be the opposite).

* * *

 

Jay’s phone number is scribbled on a small piece of paper – taken from a notepad at his hotel. It’s wedged into the edge of her mirror, like an old ticket stub. The paper is crinkled, folds that been unfolded several times. He left it behind for her when he left.

That night at the hotel, they’d slept side by side in the large bed. He had managed to coax her into drinking some hot chocolate, the leftovers of a sandwich he’d eaten earlier.

 

It took some time for her to eat it, her shaking hands slow. He’d helped her by breaking it up into smaller pieces, all the while speaking calmly about stuff that didn’t really matter.

 

He’d told her that when he was a kid, his mother had always made him eggs and toast if he was sick or woke up from a bad dream. He told her about the neighbors old great dane, how it never even moved a muscle, since it was so old – but one time he’d watched how it sprang to life when the ice cream truck rolled by. 

 

And while he talked, it became easier to eat. She licked her fingers, finding herself hungry after all.

 

When it was time to sleep, he pretended to be awake enough to read through his notes, sitting up in bed while she carefully laid her head down on the pillow next to his.

 

She woke before him in the morning, laying on her side facing the back of him. He had slept on top of the covers, arms tightly tucked around himself – but still close. She could reach out, could lay her hand flat between the space of his shoulder blades.

 

That’s a thought she wouldn’t have had at any other time – or in any other place. But once it was there in her mind, there was a curiosity, a sudden need to do just that.

 

* * *

 

There were muscles in his back that she could feel – the plains of them. But she did not do more than that. Then before long he began to move, exhaling deeply, turning on his side so that he faced her. She moved her hand back to her own nest of blankets, and then they were simply staring at each other in the dim light of the morning.

 

The past was there in a quick silent quirk of his head, in the way she tucked her chin against the pillow. But there was something else there too – the way he was looking at her now was familiar but also new – like anger but not quite, like he had waited a long time (maybe too long) to drink in the sight of her like this. 

 

There was hunger in his eyes, a _longing._

 

But before anything (what thing?) could happen, she sighed and sat up, shaking out her hair, combing it with her fingers.

 

They didn’t talk about it over breakfast – he made jokes about the Hindenburg and the current presidential campaign that made her laugh. There were two cups of coffee but he drank both of them and gave her the plastic-wrapped cookie that came with his. She leaves early without finishing her orange juice, some cookie crumbs at the corner of her mouth and _the_ _look_  flashes in his eyes for a moment before he lowers his eyes to the table, like he's just done something wrong. 

 

He hands the paper with his number on it nonchalantly, like its a grocery list. 

 

 

"It's good if you have it, in case there's something you need." he says to the table, fingers drumming on the tablecloth. 

 

* * *

Another three months pass before she plucks the note from her mirror and dials the number.

 

 

 

 


End file.
